


Our Inner Demons

by RussianCaravan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abortion, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianCaravan/pseuds/RussianCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has demons that they would rather keep hidden from the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Inner Demons

**Disclaimer: I don’t own Hetalia or these characters. Also please trust the tags, there’s some dark shit in this.**

* * *

 Amelia F Jones was a happy girl; always smiling, she loved seeing others smile back at her. Making sure that everyone around her was happy was her number one priority, which was why she was always promising to protect people. Promising to be their hero. This hero complex however, always ended as soon as her eyes met that of a mirror.

Arthur Kirkland was a troubled lad; he found making friends difficult and isolated himself from the world. Luckily, he had a stellar imagination. He would imagine he was surrounded by wondrous creatures -mainly beautiful, glittering fairies- who would talk sweetly and eased his loneliness: but fairies are mischievous and conniving creatures.

Françoise Bonnefoy was a lovely girl, she enjoyed the fine pleasures in life; fine wine, fine dining, fine clothes, fine company, and fine sex. But not everyone was impressed with that last one (especially not her mother) but Françoise was a passionate spirit who lived in the moment, and what was more important than the physical expression of love?

* * *

 Staring into the floor-length mirror in her bedroom, Amelia stood. A familiar voice resonated through the room.

“Workin’ on ya muffintop I see there hun, you’re doing a good job at becoming even more of a fat ass.” Amelia’s face fell, her eyes focused on the reflected image of her bulging stomach fat, her drooping excess breast fat, her flabby arm fat, her thunder-thigh fat. _fat_.

“I didn’t even think that was possible, you being a big wad of blubber and all, you’d fare well in the ocean wouldn’t ya?” the voice continued to torment her with words of truth. Hands pinched at her stomach.

“Yikes, even more than I thought, look at that chub bounce!” Amelia squinted at each word, her pained expression staring back at her.

“Ya know what you gotta do now, don’t ya?” Amelia nodded.

And with that Amelia had promised herself she would not eat for another three days, that tub of yogurt was too much, she had felt it grow in her stomach and inflate her already bulging fat. “Good.” The voice whispered from Amelia’s mouth.

* * *

Another day, another bully.

Another bully, another slur.

Another slur, another cut.

So many now littering his skin he had long forgotten of the words behind each one. Arthur sat on the cold tiles of the schools toilet floor, his eyes fresh with tears. The once-friendly fairies had now turned dark; their teeth gnashing and their words as stinging as school bullies. The dark fae surrounded him. A hand tentatively stroked down his left arm over his scars.

“Go on, you know how much you’d love to poppet, make all those bad feelings go away, hmm? Come along now.” A voice giggled to him through the haze of evil fae. His hand now moved automatically to the voice, reaching into his school bag, and pulling out a sharpened razor blade. A hand covered his hand, controlling its movements.

“Well done poppet! Now let’s keep going, get you all better!” Before Arthur realised it, blood was dripping from his arm and the fae had lessened around him, with both his hands now holding the bloodied razor.

* * *

“This is what you get for being such a wretched whore” sounded a voice to Françoise, whose head was down and her eyes dripping tears over a small stick in her hands. A stick with a small plus on it.

“You don’t even know who the father is do you?” She shook her head, never breaking eye contact with the small plus on the stick.

“You’re pathetic, you don’t deserve to be alive, and your spawn certainly don’t.” Françoise nodded slowly while she shook.

“For fucks sake, stop crying.” A hand hit her stomach “you know precisely how to handle this situation don’t you? A slut like you always should.”

Her head looked up and she clenched her hands as she nodded. She walked in a zombie-like trance to her alcohol cabinet. Swig after swig, and glass after glass, poison filled her veins and made her numb and clumsy. The perfect state to be pushed down stairs. She fell down.

The vacant eyes of a family portrait atop the stairs were the only ones to see her fall.

* * *

 Two weeks later, the front page of the morning paper read:  ** _Tragic deaths of three teenagers, unrelated_. **

Amelia F Jones was found in her bedroom, skeletal and malnourished; a hand pressing to the space where her stomach should have been. Arthur Kirkland was found in his bathroom, he had bled out into his bath while his mother cooked dinner, never making a sound. Françoise Bonnefoy was found at the bottom of a large cement staircase near her home, a two-month-old fetus in her womb and liquor on her breath.


End file.
